


Slave of Fashion

by larissabernstein



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biangi, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Male Character, Contest Entry, F/M, Fashion Designer, M/M, Multi, OT3, Open Marriage, Polyamory, Rare Pairings, Threesome - F/M/M, Tumblr contest, potoaufics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 21:42:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20919080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: In hindsight, maybe the elephant had not been the best of ideas, but there was just no way of standing out amidst the outrightcircusthe Fashion Week had turned into, without resorting to more daunting measures.Fashion designer AU, featuring a rare OT3. Written for littlelonghairedoutlaw's AU contest on Tumblr.





	Slave of Fashion

**Slave of Fashion**

In hindsight, maybe the elephant had not been the best of ideas, but with Gucci unashamedly and successfully going post-apocalyptic baroque, and McQueen putting their models into a giant aquarium, not to mention Chanel playing with neon-coloured quilted swastikas in what was either a somewhat misguided attempt at dealing with their own demons of the past or — more likely — the publicity stunt of the year, there was just no way of standing out amidst the outright _circus_ the Fashion Week had turned into, without resorting to more daunting measures. Animals were always a foolproof way to attract attention, and even if half of it came from animal rights activists, it was attention and therefore: headlines, and therefore: celeb clients eager to jump on the bandwagon of scandal, (and therefore: profitable high-street licensing further down the line, but _one just did not _speak out loud such unmentionable considerations). Garnier’s last autumn/winter collection had been a disaster, and the struggling fashion house was certainly in need of whatever publicity it could get, the new management had made that abundantly clear, and if it meant putting their two chief designers out on the runway — no, rather, onto the back of an honest-to-goodness damn live elephant and then out on the runway, it was a small price to pay.

However, that was when the _things_ started to happen during the rehearsals, increasingly weird accidents, from annoying but in the end rather harmless wardrobe malfunctions to more severe incidents like set pieces and stage lighting developing a life of their own, and deep down Ubaldo could have put his money on what he simply knew was going to happen, with utter certainty — but then, who would have betted against it, when the whole house knew _her_ all too well? It had only been a question of _when_ rather than _if_, and the moment came, finally, one burst zipper too many giving out on her gorgeous figure, and — arguably worse in comparison — the stupid backdrop taking its name all too literally and almost landing the love of his life in hospital. As much as he secretly hated Carlotta’s tantrums, who could blame her, really, for quitting her part in the show right then and there, flipping off with a grand old “fuck you” Garnier’s managing directors and the crew and models and even the rather unimpressed proboscis-swinging animal on whose back the stupid concept of this stupid show had rode in. Fuck them all, she was an artist, and a damn good one at that, and this pseudo-operatic show was unworthy of her talent!

And this was how Ubaldo found himself still on the back of the still unimpressed animal, but together with their design intern, Daaé was her name, if he recalled correctly, partly because she had some part-time modelling experience on her CV, but mostly because she was the only one available and willing to don the hastily pin-altered evening gown, this ironic excess of exoticism brought to life in velvet and brocade and beads made of real Roman glass that easily put Dolce & Gabbana’s textile storytelling to shame, and take over the role of what they had envisioned as Carthaginian queen, because the talk among the models — how this show was cursed, and think of all those incidents, _accidents my ass_, and sure, Garnier’s where it’s at, but maybe not run for them again, and this queen gown was certainly the most cursed part of the show, with the animal abuse and the cultural appropriation and the desecration of archaeological treasures and whatnot — had made sure no one from among their rows was going to take the risk.

That the show turned out such a success with fashion editors and bloggers and celeb audience alike, came as quite a surprise, but that Carlotta felt slighted by her own absence from the runway, missing the triumph, while that Daaé girl with her wide-eyed naiveté and fresh-faced innocence, so utterly in contrast to the regal gown she was presenting, became the sensation of the show and was the talk of the afterparty — maybe only outmatched by the elephant and Chanel’s swastikas, but that was a talk on a different level altogether, and after all it was Daaé’s face that was rumoured to make an appearance on the next Vogue cover, not the proboscis or Madame Coco’s political dalliances —, in any case that Carlotta felt slighted was no surprise, and Ubaldo tried his best to console and appease his wife. The designs, the _roles_ they had created together for this theatrical collection, no matter how much the whole thing had gone off the rails thanks to the new management, were what helped Garnier to this great success, and to have this overshadowed by the little ingénue — _a true natural!_ an up and coming star in the world of fashion, _just watch this space!_ — was frustrating indeed. At any rate, the accidents had stopped once the word was out that the girl had taken her place on the runway — but this, too, did nothing to lift Carlotta’s mood who was now quietly fuming by his side. It was damn good luck then, that the offending newcomer in question had decided to stay away from the party at least; probably the nerves after being thrust into the spotlight like this, Ubaldo reasoned but was quietly thankful as things were difficult enough already, and there was not enough champagne in this world and certainly not at the refreshment bar to help him make it through this awkward evening.

“Ah, Signor Piangi,” a voice rang out behind him, “if you have a minute,” and what was it with people putting on a strange pseudo-Italian accent whenever his surname came up in a sentence? Did it rub off onto the other words or colour the tongue of his conversational partners?

Richard Firmin, one half of the duo that made up the management — he could only ever think of them as a package deal — gave his back a hearty slap. “Brilliant show, don’t you say? Even Wintour enjoyed herself. Guess we’ll be back in the black in no time.”

Ubaldo gave an agreeing grunt, his enthusiasm slightly dampened by the iron hold of Carlotta’s fingers around his left hand; but the dreaded gushing over the show’s unexpected new star never came, and he felt himself relax slightly. Instead, Firmin all but pulled a young man to the fore that he had seemingly trotted all the way through the crowd to meet the chief designers. A familiar face, even if Ubaldo could not quite place it right now — a GQ cover boy? One of those young niche designers that one hardly was able to keep track of nowadays?

“Let me introduce you to Monsieur Raoul de Chagny, one of our generous new investors! — Monsieur de Chagny, this is our good _Signor_ Ubaldo Piangi, chief designer of Garnier since… pretty much forever, isn’t it,” Firmin gave an awkward laugh, “oh, and his wife, Carlotta,” he indicated with a nod of his head, and Ubaldo felt her iron grip tighten to a whole new level of painful. But then a soft warm palm was already pushed into his free right hand, and the handshake itself had a pleasant weight to it, and it was probably the alcohol that made the contrast between the sensations in his own two hands all the stranger and sweeter, pain and pleasure spanning an arc in his body from left to right. Firmin was suddenly nowhere in sight anymore, probably glad to be rid of the responsibility of entertaining this important guest, and the rest of the room had dissolved into a distant background blur and ambient noise.

“My pleasure,” the young man said, and damn he was right, and now Ubaldo finally took in the face that belonged to the voice, all soft angles and sad blue eyes and a casual blowout in blond crowning it all, and he could not exactly pinpoint what made him do it, but turning the hand in his just slightly until its back was presented to him and bowing in a gesture of courtesy, his lips hovering an inch over warm skin for a mere second, felt entirely right and natural, and it was unmistakably a chivalrous if quite eccentric way of greeting. Ah, he could always blame it on cultural differences if need be. At once Carlotta’s grip on his left mellowed enough to let the pleasant feelings buzzing through the right half of his body flow over into its counterpart, and was that a mild chuckle he heard from her?

So this was the young heir that the press had dubbed _the Vicomte_, thanks to the rumoured aristocratic ancestry of his, but who cared about that today except tabloids, and this was the man that had taken such a liking to Garnier — a _fool with too much money_ or _an idealist_, the papers could not decide which of the two it was — and, of course, Ubaldo knew this face, knew exactly why it had seemed so familiar, as he had spotted it before during one of the rehearsals, but admittedly, he had been quite distracted at the time by Carlotta’s grievances and all these weird incidents, and did he mention the fact that he, chief designer turned unwilling runway model, had to sit atop a fucking live elephant, all the while trying to preserve his dignity as much as possible, because one could only get away with that much and not turn into a laughing act, and not everyone could be a Lagerfeld and own the catwalk like a goddamn demigod?

“The Vicomte?” Carlotta now cut in, because of course she would, but the young man merely smiled, this hint of sadness on his features slightly attenuated by something that looked like genuine delight.

“Raoul,” he said, just on this side of breathless, and slipped out of Ubaldo’s hand, and it was only now that Ubaldo realised he had still kept him in his grasp, and if the hand-kissing could have been excused as foreign or eccentric custom, holding on to that hand for god-knows-how-long surely was awkward at best and embarrassing or inappropriate at worst. The young man did not seem to mind, however, as he turned his attention now on Carlotta and gave a slight bow, all noble bearing and old-school upbringing. “I congratulate you on your fabulous designs, Madame.”

This man was a keeper, in whatever way attainable, Ubaldo felt it right through his core.

“Just a shame Christine could not be here with us to celebrate tonight,” Raoul added.

Well, maybe not a keeper after all.

However, the expected outburst never came, and instead he heard Carlotta ask with no little curiosity: “Ah, you know our little Mademoiselle Daaé?”

“A childhood friend,” Raoul elaborated, and there it was again, this strange sadness settling over his handsome features. “I was looking forward to accompanying her to the party tonight, but she seemed… otherwise occupied.”

Ubaldo felt his eyebrows creep up at that rather interesting phrasing, but kept his mouth shut. They had only known the man for a few minutes, and it would be impolite to quiz him on a matter that was obviously a cause of some distress for him.

Carlotta, however, had no such qualms, and really, was this a surprise?

“Ah, stood you up, the girl! Well, her loss —” and at that her voice gained in cheerful volume, “what do you say, Ubaldo, is it not our duty then to make sure our new friend here is having a good time?”

She was up to something, clearly, and he was sure this was not only about the importance of their investor and about securing his good graces, but _The Vicomte _made no move to object, no, the young man seemed to be positively charmed by the undivided attention he got from the couple.

“Champagne?” Ubaldo asked, because he felt like this was his cue and he had to say something, and the man — Raoul was his name — looked back at him, in this mix of youthful insecurity and starstruck awe, and really, they _had_ made themselves a name in the world of fashion, even when this name was firmly connected with the boom years of the 1990s. There was no reason not to enjoy a little hero worship, especially with this young man now staring at him as if he wanted to climb his portly form like a tree.

Carlotta took the lead, back in her element once more, and Ubaldo was sincerely grateful for his wife’s never disappointing initiative, and soon the three of them found themselves clustered around one of the high tables, on their fourth glass — at least according to the _Count’s count_ — and, haha, why was this so funny, why did it come so easy to chat and flirt with the young man, and what did he just say — seriously, in one of the dressing rooms? And the Daaé girl had just vanished like this, no kidding, only smudges of lipstick left on the mirror, and a bra hanging from the doorknob, boy, had she ever pulled a trick on poor Raoul! But what good was crying over missed chances when they were having such a good time now, yes? And Raoul seemed to agree as he was linking arms with them, surely not because his gait was a little unsteady, or was it Ubaldo’s, and between the three of them they made it safely out of the fading remnants of the party and found a taxi back to Raoul’s place, a really nice place, because Ubaldo felt quite a bit hungry after all that talking and laughing, and there should be cheese and bread and prosciutto crudo, and yes, there was indeed.

Raoul turned out to be both rich and idealistic, the papers had been right about both, and maybe he was also a bit foolish, but, if anything, it was rather endearing on him. Throwing himself into the whole Garnier business was his attempt at breaking free from his overbearing elder brother, they learned while helping him out of his suit coat, and maybe he was also acting on his saviour instincts, pulling the old and traditional fashion house out of its impending ruin, and damn, the guy actually knew quite a lot about fashion too, regaling them with tales about his own meagre experiments in design — a collection of scarves made from saltwater treated, “distressed” silk, in a dozen different shades of red, that was actually very avant-garde, they could surely work with that.

They had to do something about the bumbling management, too, Carlotta reminded them and refilled their glasses with the decent vintage they had procured from Raoul’s wine cabinet. All these weird mishaps — they had increased in frequency with Firmin and André taking over, had they not? Curse or mismanagement, whatever it was, Carlotta wasn’t going to have any of it, if they still wanted her to bless the house with her talents, and Ubaldo found himself agreeing around a bite of cheese.

These were topics for later, however, his wife seemed to decide for them, when she pulled him in for a kiss while drawing Raoul closer into their embrace. Tonight they were going to be the stars of Garnier again, and there really was no way they could fail at taking Raoul’s mind off the little intern and her games!


End file.
